


it stayed (so did you)

by NightChanghes



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A lil fluff, M/M, a lil angst, a super fun twist, dean being self conscious, general softness, idk i was tired and wrote this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 03:26:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,621
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NightChanghes/pseuds/NightChanghes
Summary: Cas finds something under Dean's bed he definitely wasn't expecting.





	it stayed (so did you)

**Author's Note:**

> Enjoy this silly lil thing.

Castiel didn’t mean to go through Dean’s things. He didn’t mean to walk into his room and pull out a box underneath it. He definitely didn’t mean to open that box to find all sorts of face and body foundations and concealers.

All he was doing was looking for the deck of cards Dean had sent him off to get. It wasn’t his fault he drunkenly grabbed the wrong black box. Except it probably was because he’d pushed something out of the way under the dark of the bed to get to this box and _dammit_ that was probably the box with the cards in it.

Cas is so afraid Dean will think he’s invaded his privacy, that it will take their finally repairing relationship and flush all that progress down the drain, that he just sits there, box in front of him, hands squeezing together going clammy, eyes unwavering from the cosmetics.

He’s in such a daze with the mix of fear anticipating Dean’s drunken reaction, and curiosity, to find out what the makeup is for, that he sits there, curled into himself, for far too long. So long in fact, that he's still there when Dean swishes into the room, words slightly slurred, asking “Find the cards yet, Cas? Wanna play King’s cup. Tired’a waiti-“ but before he can finish his sentence, his brain finally catches up with the sight before him.

Cas knows he’s got a “deer in the headlights” look as he stares up at him, too frightened to make a sudden movement. And then, Dean isn’t speaking, just looking from Cas to the box, Cas to the box, Cas to the box, and Cas is squirming under his gaze, trying so hard not to break.

Tears in his eyes, he finally finds words, “M’sorry Dean, I didn’t mean to look through your stuff, I uh- I’m a bit tipsy and I must’ve accidentally pushed your box of cards to the side”

Dean just sighs and sways to sit on his mattress, above where Cas is tucked on the floor with his back against the bed frame. “Fuck.” Dean groans, wiping a hand down his face and then promptly falling all the way back into the bed.

It’s silent for some time, and, assuming Dean has fallen asleep on the bed, Cas stretches, gingerly closing the box of makeup and placing it back in its hidden spot. He stands slowly trying to repress the rustle of his clothing, but instead of finding Dean with half-moon eyelashes dozing off, he’s wide-eyed, staring at the concrete ceiling, a soft hand tracing his left shoulder on top of the blue and white flannel he’s donning.

Cas watches for a moment and nearly turns to leave when Dean’s eyes lock with his and hold him there. Dean keeps the eye contact when he sits up and begins slowly unbuttoning the flannel.

It’s not sexual in any way, just matter of fact, like his fingers on each small button are the words he’s trying to say but can’t. When his top is fully undone, Cas lets out a tiny gasp. Dean isn’t wearing his usual shirt under the flannel, so he’s completely bare-chested. Dean shrugs like he knows what Cas is thinking and moves on to pulling his arms out of the sleeves.

“Didn’t need to cover it tonight” Dean mumbles.

Castiel quirks his head at the out of place comment but lets Dean continue on as he removes the flannel.

He slips off the right sleeve first, then the left, and this time, the sound that climbs its way out of Castiel’s throat is audible and breathless and shocked. The skin on Dean’s left shoulder is raised red in the form of a handprint.

Castiel’s handprint.

Dean isn’t looking at Cas and Cas doesn’t even notice the way his human’s eyes are trained at the floor as his angelic eyes furiously inspect the mark.

It’s supposed to be gone, supposed to have disappeared after his first death and resurrection after Castiel raised him from hell. It’s supposed to have healed and settled along with any other earthly wounds that found their ways onto Dean’s body.

With death comes purification, so this mark, this scar, it should be gone. But it isn’t. And Castiel is in awe. It looks so beautiful there, and the heat of possessiveness sparks in his gut. He aches to touch his handprint embossed on soft freckled skin, trace it like Dean was just moments before, feel the constant physical pulse and burn of residual grace that must plague Dean constantly.

When Castiel finally snaps out of it, he looks to Dean, his head hung low and his breathing elevated. Castiel takes a soft step towards the bed before turning to sit at the end near Dean’s feet.

“Dean?” His voice shakes, but it’s nothing compared to the broken, “Cas.” that falls from between soft pink lips.

Cas keeps his hands to himself, rubs his palms along his own thighs to keep himself from being impulsive and moving his hands to the bare shoulder before him.

“What’s- How— I guess I don’t know what to ask.” He sighs, getting no real reaction from Dean. “Does Sam know?”

Dean solemnly shakes his head, “Been hidin’ it.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s so…. heavy. Didn’t want it to affect you too. Don’t like being…. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” Dean’s looking at his fingers, rubbing circles into his palm with his thumb.

Castiel decides to just focus on one line of questioning, but he files the other comments away in case he needs to address them later.

“Why would a mark _I _left on you make _me_ uncomfortable?”

Castiel can hear the frustration in the human’s voice when he states, “Because it’s not supposed to be here anymore.”

Briefly, Castiel worries that Dean is _ashamed_, but he soldiers on despite the nagging voice in his head that is begging him to turn back, “I agree that it is odd that it has not healed with resurrection like your other scars. But this does not make me uncomfortable. In fact, I’m ecstatic it still remains on your skin.” He lets his voice soften and his gaze meet Dean’s, “I missed it.”

Dean huffs and brings a hand to it, moving slowly, like it’s a subconscious, bone-deep habit.

“Don’t be ashamed of it.”

“M’not. I- I love it.”

“Then why-?”

“Because, Cas. Because if I cover it up with a little makeup and a tiny concealing spell every day, the weight lessens. The burning? The emotion? The memories? It makes the pain dull, the emotions less obvious, the memories softer.” Dean’s gruff voice is interrupted by his own sharp inhale and then, “It hurts enough to have a constant reminder of _you_ on my shoulder, I don’t need to add you _knowing_ on top of all that. If you knew, if I kept it out in the open- _God, Cas_\- it wants you. Pulls me towards you. At least this way it makes how much I love you bearable!” At that, Dean clams up, throws a hand over his mouth like he regrets everything he just spilled out, but Cas stays steadfast, puts a hand gently on Dean’s ankle where it sits beside him and he rubs slowly there, making Dean’s eyes meet his own.

He’s using all of his power to keep himself together as his low voice grumbles from the deep, “I love you too, Dean. I knew I was gone from the moment I saved you. I left that handprint as a reminder.” Dean’s hand lowers, he’s shaking and tears are threatening to spill over onto his cheeks. Cas scoots closer and brings both of his hands up to cup the hunter’s face, rubbing soft lines up and down Dean’s cheekbones. “For the same reason your emotions and memories from the earth are restored upon resurrection, this mark,” he moves his hand down to the exposed handprint, placing it there as Dean visibly shudders at the contact, “stayed. It is a part of your soul. A part pulled to the surface so it cannot be avoided. A piece of my soul rests here too. Where it pulls, you must follow as I have, and if you choose to do so, I will welcome you.”

Dean looks stunned, then softens as he smiles and pulls Cas into a tear-soaked kiss. Just as his hand on Dean’s shoulder feels like fire, the burning of a righteous soul melding with the white-hot of angelic grace, Dean’s lips feel like coming home, two beings created in different worlds, but destined to find one another on equal ground.

When they pull back, Dean letting his hand move to his shoulder to lay atop Castiel’s hand, he grins as if a dam broke. Castiel can read everything on his face. The longing is replaced with love. The pain replaced by passion. The sorrow replaced by acceptance.

Chuckling, smile lines crinkling by his eyes, Dean lets a quip roll off of his tongue, “So, um, I got into my Mom's makeup when I was about three or four, and my Dad caught me, literally red-handed, with lipstick all over my fuckin' hands, and goddammit, _this_ would have happened a lot sooner if I had just listened to my Dad that day and remembered to stay away from all this makeup crap."

Castiel giggles at that and then pulls Dean, _that_ _dork_, back in for another kiss.

When they part, Castiel goes serious, resting his forehead against Dean's, “Never hide this part of your soul again. You hear me?”

Dean smirks and strokes a thumb over the back of Castiel’s hand, “Wouldn’t dream of it, angel.”


End file.
